Breaking Point
by Littleforest
Summary: [Complete] Post-OotP. When Snape is forced to search Little Whinging for a missing Harry Potter, the last thing he expects is to find the boy drunk, covered in bruises and close to giving up...
1. Part One

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and his world belong to J.K. Rowling. The lyrics at the start belong to Citizen Cope. This story belongs to me.

**Warnings: **Some explicit violence, the occasional swearword and reference to physical abuse. No slash.

* * *

**Breaking Point**

**Part One**

* * *

_These feelings won't go away._

_They've been knockin' me sideways._

_I keep thinking in a moment that time will take them away,_

_But these feelings won't go away._

'_**Sideways', Citizen Cope**_

* * *

A young teenage boy, almost sixteen years old now, sat desolately on the only unbroken swing in the empty and abandoned playground, the night-time breeze ruffling his jet-black hair as he slowly swung forwards and backwards through the air, his eyes closed and his fingers gripped tightly around the can of beer he held in his hand.

Empty beer cans lay scattered around him on the playground floor, thrown in all directions without a second glance, telling a story of desolation and desperation. He had been there for hours, watching as the night slowly crept up on Little Whinging, alone and untroubled as he was by those who lived in the neighbourhood. Everyone had heard tales of that boy; stories of a hardened criminal, a hooligan who attended St Brutus' Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys. It didn't surprise a single one of them that he was drinking underage and after dark, but they did not confront him. The troublesome youth wasn't their problem and they were glad of it.

The boy stopped swinging and opened his eyes, looking to the stars in the sky for a moment before raising a pale hand to take a long, deep swig from the can. A drop of alcohol escaped his lips and began to dribble down his chin but he swiped at it angrily with his worn jacket sleeve before throwing the empty can on the floor to join the others that lay scattered at his feet.

Without waiting even for a moment, the boy bent over and pulled another can free, opening the beer in mere seconds and immediately gulping down some of the bitter liquid as if his life depended on it.

The cold breeze once again ripped through the late night air but, despite the fact that he only had a thin, worn jacket to protect him, the boy didn't even shiver, oblivious as he was to the cold. Numbness overwhelmed his frame, helped by the alcohol flooding through his system, and he welcomed it.

For it was only the second week of the summer holiday after his fifth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, had already had enough.

Harry once again dragged his eyes upwards to the heavens, looking up at the stars that were just beginning to appear in the darkening sky above him as he took another long swig from the can he gripped tightly in his hand.

Was Sirius there? he thought, pain rising up in his chest, as it did every time he was reminded of his Godfather. He took another deep swig from the can of beer, desperate to bury the memory in the swirling effects brought on by the alcohol.

He knew that Sirius had been named after the dog constellation but for the life of him, he couldn't remember what it looked like. Astronomy had never been his strongest subject, but tonight he cursed his lack of knowledge. It would have been a comfort to him, he thought, to see Sirius looking down on him.

Or would it? Would Sirius be ashamed of him? He was a mess; a stupid, arrogant teenager who had taken his friends on a dangerous jaunt that had resulted in the death of his Godfather.

Why wouldn't Sirius be ashamed?

Harry took another gulp of beer hoping to drown out the terrible thoughts that had been bouncing around his head for days, hoping to numb himself against the maelstrom of emotion that wracked his very frame.

Harry was sick of being brave. He didn't have it in him to care anymore. He wanted to hide from his memories, his thoughts.

His life.

* * *

Slowly, the time passed.

Harry found he didn't know how long he sat on that swing, drinking slowly from the cans he had stolen from Dudley as his mind fought with his conflicting emotions; pain warring with sadness, desolation with anger. Harry found that he was literally drowning his sorrows as he drank the stolen booze, hoping to lose himself in drunkenness, if only to give himself a break from his troubled mind and desperate thoughts.

Idly, as he took another sip, he wondered if he was depressed. His mind felt mercifully detached for once, thanks to the alcohol, as he thought about the idea; with everything he had been through, it actually wasn't that far-fetched. Every year, one thing after another seemed to pile onto him, and every year he found it harder and harder to see the reason to carry on.

Even Hogwarts, the one place he had ever truly felt was his home, had been tainted in the past year. Umbridge had left her mark, not least as a scar on his hand, and the events that had marked the end of the year had tested his resolve more than it had ever been tested before. After the death of his Godfather, and because of his own guilt in the events leading up to it, Harry had found that even the old castle held no comfort for him anymore. Teachers looked at him with pity, all but Snape of course, and his friends no longer knew what to say to him. They still stuck by him, and he was grateful for that, but something had changed. He had changed.

It was as if he no longer...belonged.

It had almost been a relief to return to the Dursleys. At least here he wouldn't have to put on a brave face and act like everything was okay. The Dursleys couldn't care less if he was unhappy, and despite the odd altercation that formed daily life on Privet Drive, they had so far left him pretty much alone.

Detachedly, Harry raised a pale hand to prod gently at the bruise on his cheek, a remnant of one of the few times that the Dursleys, and his Uncle in particular, had _not _left him alone. He pushed the injury with his finger, harder and harder, relishing the pain that broke over the area as it gave him momentary relief over the pain in his soul.

He'd known that the Dursleys would not respect his privacy during this difficult time, but the realisation that they actually enjoyed his pain and misery was a hard one to take. As much as he tried not to care about what the Dursleys thought, since they had always cared so little about him, he couldn't prevent a small amount of hurt from rising in his chest at their treatment.

Hurt mixed with a little bit of anger.

Because Harry _was_ angry. He couldn't help it; his building fury momentarily broke up the numb haven created by the alcohol that he had already drunk that evening. They were the only living relatives he had left and they hated his guts. They should have loved him and cared for him, but instead they treated him like nothing. He deserved better!

Bitter thoughts swirled through his mind, and, as much as he wanted to hide from his past, he found himself unable to stop it.

Rage and injustice rose up in him and, in a furious anger, Harry launched the can he'd been drinking from as far as he could throw it, crying out in fury and pain as he unleashed what he had been holding in for weeks. He pulled himself off the swing and stumbled over to the cans scattered on the floor. One by one, he picked them up and threw them in every direction, pent up anger released with every throw.

He hated them. He truly, honestly, hated them...

"Watch it, Potter!"

Harry paused, slightly out of breath as his heart thudded loudly in his chest. The numbness that he had tried to lose himself in recently had left as easily as it had come, and he cursed its absence now. Can in hand, he turned around to face the voice, having immediately recognised who it was.

"Hey freak," sneered Dudley casually, although there was something immediately threatening in his gait as he made his way over to Harry, flanked as always by his 'gang'. Harry allowed the can he'd been holding to fall from his hand as he slowly walked back towards the swing to sit down, not wanted to give his cousin the satisfaction of getting a reaction out of him.

"Hey Potter!" Dudley tried again, raising his voice in anger. Apparently he was not just going to leave Harry alone. "Did you really think you'd get away with stealing my booze?"

"Leave me alone, Dudley," Harry said wearily as he pulled his jacket's hood over his head, struggling to focus his vision on the gang in front of him when all his eyes seemed to want to do was sleep. He wasn't remotely scared of his cousin any more, but he wasn't exactly in the mood to deal with him now. His thoughts were whirring now, and the pain in his chest was returning. He needed more beer...

"Make me, freak," Dudley taunted, obviously trying to look tough to his friends. "Not so big now are you, now that you aren't surrounded by your freak friends."

Dudley was, of course, referring to the members of the Order that had seen him off at the station at the end of term. The Dursleys hadn't taken to the threat of retribution very well. In fact, his Uncle seemed to have taken it as a personal insult and had since vowed to treat Harry however he wanted regardless of whatever 'those freaks' said.

The painful bruise on his cheek, courtesy of his Uncle's backhand, could testify to that.

Suddenly feeling melancholy again, Harry reached down and grabbed another beer, opening it with haste and drinking it down with desperation. His cousin was talking with his gang, no doubt plotting something, but Harry found he cared very little, if at all. The alcohol was doing its job once again and, after a few minutes and half a can, Harry felt control come back to him as the pain ebbed away and blissful numbness started to return.

"We're gonna teach you a lesson now," Dudley threatened, bolstered by the jeers and encouragement of his mates as he turned back to his cousin. Harry, reluctantly, since his head was beginning to feel very heavy, raised his eyes to meet Dudley's. "No one steals from Big D and gets away with it!"

"You're going to teach me a lesson?" Harry scoffed, not the least bit scared by the threat, especially with the alcohol flowing through his system. In fact, he felt oddly fearless. "Is it how to look like a pig? Because that's something I think you're an expert on. Get rid of any pig tails lately?"

His words were slurred slightly, and his eyes had struggled to focus, but Harry reckoned he'd gotten the point across. Dudley flushed at the insult, clearly reminded of the humiliation he'd experienced at the hands of Hagrid, and Harry couldn't help but feel a little bit of satisfaction at his cousin's embarrassment now.

"Shut it freak!" Dudley snapped angrily, although there was a hint of desperation in his tone. "Shut your mouth or I'll shut it for you!"

"I'd like to see you try," Harry taunted, fully aware that all four boys were now advancing on him and not caring in the least. He had spent almost all his childhood running from these idiots and after everything he'd been through since then, it felt like a betrayal to try to run now; he wasn't a little defenceless kid anymore. Instead he stood his ground, an act made easier by the alcohol that was ruling his senses.

Dudley seemed to take Harry's taunt as a personal challenge and charged at Harry head on. Harry, who had spent years dodging everything from bludgers to his Uncle's fists, easily stepped out of the way of his charging cousin, despite being more than unsteady on his feet.

Alcohol clouded his mind and blurred his eyesight, so much so that he didn't see the other three boys charge until it was too late. Pain erupted in his ribs as fists collided with his body. Someone pushed him with force, knocking him to the ground. He tried to scramble away but he wasn't quick enough. A hand grabbed him by the hair and yanked him up, the pain so intense that Harry was unable to prevent a groan from escaping his lips. He tried to pull away but the arms holding him were too strong.

"Not so clever now, are you Potter?" Dudley sneered as he drove a chubby fist into Harry's face, adding to the bruise already left by his father.

The other boys laughed loudly, mocking him in his pain.

"Learnt your lesson yet, freak?" Dudley asked cruelly as he pummelled another fist into Harry's chest causing Harry to double over in pain.

Harry didn't reply, and would have refused to even if he had had the ability to speak, not wanting to give Dudley the satisfaction of thinking he'd got to him. He kept his mouth firmly closed, even as the darkness began to creep on the edge of his vision and unconscious beckoned as pain overcame his senses.

Harry closed his eyes and welcomed the darkness, down, down until he knew no more.

* * *

Slowly, awareness crept back into his cloudy mind.

Unmoving from the awkward position he had been left in on the floor, Harry cracked one eye open, squinting as he tried to make out the shapes in the darkness. Memory slowly came back to him and he groaned as the pain from the beating started to become more and more noticeable in his foggy mind.

From what he could see, it was still night and he was still in the park; he could just make out the swing as it moved slightly in the late night breeze, dimly lit by the flickering street lamp nearby.

As he wiped his bloody lip on his sleeve, Harry cursed his idiotic cousin, his luck, the world...his life. Couldn't he just be left alone for one night? Was it honestly too much to ask for?

Idly, the pain registered in his lips, his cheek, his ribs and his chest, but he simply pulled himself over to where the rest of the cans were and picked up another one up before taking a deep swing, ignoring the sting as the liquid ran over his injured mouth. Harry closed his eyes as he gingerly sat back on the swing, gripping the chains as his world began to spin a little.

The beating had been painful, yes, but Harry had suffered worse, and he knew he wouldn't have to suffer much longer.

As long as he kept drinking, Harry knew that alcohol would take away the pain, both inside and out, and numb him into blissful oblivion.

* * *

Severus Snape was furious. Not only had he been forced to do guard duty on Potter's house, as if he didn't have better ways to spend his time, but he had also just been informed by the ever unreliable Mundungus Fletcher that the stupid boy was not even there.

According to the thief, Potter had stormed out of the house hours ago in a fit of adolescent rage and had not returned since. When Snape had questioned the man as to why he had not followed the imbecile and brought him back, Fletcher had simply replied that 'somefin' else 'ad come up'.

Cursing Albus Dumbledore for employing the thief's help in the first place, Snape almost turned around and left for home in an act of defiance, before common sense mercifully prevailed and he acknowledged that he should probably find Potter himself before the boy got himself into even more trouble than he was already in.

What on earth had possessed the idiot to leave the one place he was deemed safe? He could have been captured by Death Eaters and no one would have been any the wiser.

Growling as he turned away from the Dursley residence, the Potion's Master pulled out his wand and cast a quick locating spell. Letting out a small breath that he hadn't realised he'd be holding, Snape began to follow the spell. At least the fool hadn't been captured by Voldemort. Potter was still nearby; the nerve of the boy!

His robes flapped around his body but he didn't give a damn about maintaining a muggle persona at the moment. Also, Snape reasoned, it was so late that he doubted anyone would see him. Except Potter that is. A smirk began to form on his face as the thought of the brat's reaction to seeing his most hated Professor this early in the summer holidays. At least the night wouldn't be a total waste; he had the opportunity to rile the Gryffindor golden boy, and he had no intention of wasting it. He wondered, somewhat maliciously, if he could assign detentions during the summer...

His unfriendly trail of thought was interrupted when the spell directed him to an old playground, abandoned in the night-time climate. Snape frowned. He had expected Potter to be at some sort of muggle party; drinking, smoking, doing drugs...whatever teenagers did these days.

But a muggle playground? A children's playground? Potter was immature, yes, but surely even he would not run out on his doting relatives just to spend his time at a dark and deserted playground.

Slowly, but with a determined carefulness, Snape opened the gate and made his way into the darkened playground, his wand lit and raised in front of him, a curse waiting on his lips should he be confronted with an attacker. Potter was undoubtedly in the vicinity, something he was aware of as he scanned the area, but the boy managed to attract trouble in a way that not even his blasted father had been able to achieve.

Squinting slightly in the darkness, Snape could just make out a small, skinny figure sitting on one of the swings. Looking closer, Snape saw that the figure had its head bent to the floor and had remained unmoving despite the noise that Snape had made as he had walked through the gate to the playground.

Slowly, Snape approached the desolate figure, a small tendril of apprehension making its way into his mind as he took in the empty beer cans at his feet.

He raised his wand, the light shining directly into the face of the figure, but the dawning comprehension that had hit him when he'd realised that he'd found his quarry, was soon replaced by a shock that almost caused him to drop his wand.

"Potter?"

* * *

Harry opened his eyes a crack, his eyelid feeling heavier than usual as he raised his head to meet his new interruption.

"Snape?" Harry groaned as he squinted towards the black clad figure stood directly in front of him. What the hell was the greasy git doing here!? Why wouldn't everyone just leave him alone...?

"Potter! Get up you stupid boy!"

A hand shot out before Harry, with his dulled reflexes, could register it, and yanked at his jacket, pulling Harry off the swing so violently that he tripped up and fell to the ground hard, leaving him sprawled in an ungraceful heap on the cold floor.

"What a stupid, idiotic, imbecilic..."

The tirade continued, but Harry faded out as the blood began to pump more loudly in his ears than he had ever thought possible. His head ached, his body ached.

His soul ached.

"Potter," growled Snape, dragging Harry's thoughts back to the present. He did seem to be finding it unusually difficult to focus at the moment, and had it not been for Snape, Harry would likely had slept on the floor exactly where he had fallen, too exhausted, both physically and mentally, to do anything about it.

Instead, he reluctantly dragged his aching body off the ground, swaying slightly as he stood on unsteady feet. Harry stumbled forwards to grab the frame of the swing but his limbs didn't seem to be cooperating.

As he felt himself fall forwards again, a hand grabbed his shoulder in a tight grip keeping him upright, and Harry felt his face burn as he realised that the Potion's master was the person currently keeping his from falling back to the floor. It took all his self-restraint not to just shrug the greasy git off him, but in all honesty, Harry knew he would fall without the help.

"What on earth possessed you to leave your relative's home!?" Snape demanded, his hand like a vice on Harry's shoulder. Harry bit back a wince and kept his mouth tightly shut. He didn't think Snape would appreciate him talking back at the moment. "And to get drunk, of all things! After all the Order has done to protect you, you decide to flaunt your fame and do whatever you want. Of all the arrogant – "

"M'Sorry," Harry mumbled, more to shut Snape up than anything else. He knew the guilt would come, it always did, but at the moment he wanted nothing more than the stay in the blissful oblivion of drunkenness.

"Potter! Stand still, you fool!" Snape snapped, frustration colouring his tone.

"Hmm?" Harry slurred absently as he tried to walk back to the swing, hampered in his progress by the hand gripped tightly to his shoulder. "Wanna sit down. M'tired."

* * *

"Idiotic boy..." Snape muttered. He pulled Harry over to the swing, allowing the boy to sit down for a moment. As desperate as he was to dump Potter back at his house and have rid of him, he knew the boy wasn't able to go anywhere yet. He hadn't failed to notice the bruises and blood on the boy's face as well, but that only seemed to spark his anger. Not only drinking, but fighting as well...

"Do you have any idea how foolish you've been, Potter?" Snape demanded as he knocked the boy's hand away from trying to grab another beer from the stock pile on the floor. With a flick of his wand, it vanished without a trace.

"Hey!" slurred Potter angrily. "I...need that!"

"Why?" demanded Snape, unrepentant of his actions.

Potter frowned up at him, the bruises starkly contrasting against the boy's pale skin as his face was illuminated in the wand's light.

"Hurts," Potter replied drunkenly, his face set in a grimace.

"I'm sure it is no one's fault but your own, Potter," Snape said unsympathetically as he made another grab for the boy, pulling him up by his jacket once again. It was time to get the stupid idiot home to his adoring relatives.

"Don't...touch me!" Potter snapped, shrugging away from Snape's grip. He overbalanced though, and hit the floor again with a painful thud, almost knocking his glasses clean off his face.

"Shit," the boy groaned as he rolled over onto his back.

"Language, Potter," Snape snapped, having lost patience with him. He made no move to assist him the idiot as he tried to pull himself up from the floor.

"Oh if only the wizarding world could see the great Harry Potter now," Snape taunted nastily as he watched with his arms folded as Potter continued to struggle.

"Shut up...Snape," Harry muttered, although it was loud enough for Snape to have caught it.

Snape merely smirked in reply before bending down and pulling Harry up by his jacket. Harry struggled against the grip, inadvertently causing his t-shirt to rise up.

* * *

There was a soft gasp, and Harry's clouded mind took a while to work out who had made the noise.

"Potter?" Snape began with a frown, his tone coloured with concern. "Who did this to you?"

Harry shrugged. He had no intention of talking to Snape about what his cousin had done. Obviously Snape had noticed the bruises on his face, but he hadn't seemed bothered about those, so Harry couldn't understand why the man suddenly cared now. It wasn't as if his bruises were even _that _bad...

"Potter..." Snape warned, his face suddenly turning into the threatening expression that Harry knew so well.

"Muggle boys," muttered Harry reluctantly, closing his eyes as dizziness overcame him all of a sudden. He began to walk away from the park as best he could, eager to escape the uncomfortable conversation with Snape.

Snape frowned as he followed, keeping a hand on Harry's shoulder to steady him. "What in Merlin's name did you do to them to deserve this?"

He gestured to the bruises on Harry's chest, but instead of replying, Harry angrily yanked his t-shirt back down, covering them up once again.

"As annoying as you are, Potter," Snape sneered, although something in his tone seemed off; as if some of the anger had left him. "I find it hard to believe that you did anything that would warrant such treatment."

Harry just shrugged as they continued to stumble awkwardly down the street, Snape's hand still gripped tightly on Harry's arm to keep him upright.

"Or maybe the Golden boy is not as golden as we all thought," Snape continued, frustration creeping into his words. "Perhaps this was merely justice. A bully who got what was coming to him. Like father, like son..."

"Didn't do anything, you git!" Harry slurred angrily. "They just started...on me."

Snape didn't react, but there didn't seem to be any surprise in his expression. Harry had had enough of this though; his body ached, his mind was foggy, and exhaustion was creeping up on him rapidly. All he wanted to do now was to go to sleep.

"M'going to bed," Harry declared as his head throbbed and his world spun dangerously.

"Fine," snapped Snape in annoyance, dragging Harry down the street at a quickened pace. They turned onto Privet Drive and suddenly Harry felt sick for an entirely different reason. He stopped suddenly, causing Snape to snap round in frustration.

"Potter –"

"Don't...wanna go back," Harry slurred stubbornly, refusing to move another step. "I'll...be in...trouble."

"You are already in trouble, Potter!" Snape snapped. "Do you know how much danger you were in tonight? Do you know how easily you could have been killed, you fool! Had I not found you when I did..."

"S'not my fault," Harry defended himself drunkenly. "Was there...all night." His head lolled slightly as he nodded in the direction of the playground they had just left behind.

"Yes," Snape ground out as if he was trying desperately not to strike the boy. "But we did not know that, you imbecile. You were told to remain at home."

Harry just shrugged again, determined not to move another step.

"Foolish boy!" Snape growled as he tried to pull Harry forward once again, Harry resisting as much as he could without falling over.

"Like you care, you greasy git," Harry muttered, but Snape heard him.

"Do you have a death wish, you imbecile?" Snape asked angrily, frustration clear in his tone.

Harry just shrugged in reply. Thinking about death always led him to thinking about the Prophecy, and so far he had done a good job of avoiding that particular topic.

"And stop that infernal shrugging!"

"Yes, _Sir," _mocked Harry, attempting an exaggerated bow to make his point even further. Unfortunately Snape had let go of Harry's arm for a brief moment, and he found himself stumbling forward, the ground coming up to meet him more quickly than he had imagined possible.

A hand grabbed him again, none too gently, but it prevented him from losing his footing completely.

"Thanks," Harry muttered.

"Come along, Potter," Snape said, and Harry thought he just sounded weary now. "It's time you went home to your relatives. I'm sure they've sent out a search party by now."

"They won't care," Harry said, resisting the urge to shrug again. Reluctantly he allowed Snape to pull him along towards Number Four. As much as he wanted to avoid the Dursleys, he found that he wanted to sleep more.

"Of course not," Snape replied sarcastically, before his tone turned serious once again. "They have pampered you and spoilt you to the point where you think you can get away anything..."

"Nah...they hate me," Harry told him matter-of-factly as they walked up to the front door. The numbness was starting to fade and he wanted nothing more than a hot shower to sooth his injuries and his bed.

"Of course they don't hate you –"

"Dudley," Harry said, pointing to his bloody nose and his chest. "Uncle," he said pointing to the bruise on his cheek.

At the back of his mind, somewhere amongst the swirling fog that made up his thoughts, Harry realised that he had just told one of his deepest secrets to the one person most likely to use it against him. At this point, though, he couldn't seem to bring himself to care. Harry was tired, so tried that his brain didn't seem to be working properly.

"Your relatives struck you?" Snape sounded shocked for some reason. Was it honestly that big of a surprise? Everyone knew he hated going home in the summer...

"Not my aunt," Harry confirmed drunkenly, his head lolling dangerously as they stood on the cold, dark street outside number four. "Does try though. I duck...m'fast..."

"Do you require healing?" Snape asked with a frown, his grip loosening slightly on Harry's arm. Harry took this as an invitation to stumble over to the front door.

"Nah, m'fine," Harry slurred. "I've had...worse."

Harry stopped at the door, frowning as he noticed that the curtains were drawn around the downstairs windows and that no light was sneaking through the gaps. The Dursleys must be asleep, which posed Harry a bit of a problem...

"Potter, you imbecile," snapped Snape, breaking into Harry's jumbled thoughts. "Get inside!"

"No key." Harry shrugged, trying to keep his balance as he leant against the door.

"Move aside then, you foolish boy," Snape said with a frown. The Potions Professor raised his wand, muttering a quick spell as he did so. Harry heard the tell tale sound of the lock clicking and took this as an invitation to get inside.

Without waiting to see if Snape followed him, Harry immediately began to make his way up the stairs. By the time he reached the top, he was practically on his hands and knees, exhaustion gripping at his entire body. He cursed Snape for getting rid of his beer. All he'd wanted to do was pass out in drunken obliviousness, but it obviously wasn't an option anymore.

Sighing slightly as he pushed open his bedroom door, his relief at being in his room quickly turned into annoyance when he realised that Snape had indeed followed him.

"Lovely," the man commented sarcastically as he took in Harry's small and undecorated bedroom with a distasteful eye.

"Shuddup," Harry slurred as he stumbled over to his bed and practically fell on it, face first. His mind whirred and he felt vaguely sick as he lay there, waiting for the dizziness to fade away so that he could sleep. Minutes passed though, and the illness had yet to leave.

"Why?" Snape asked calmly. Harry jumped, startled by the man's presence. He'd thought his Professor would have left by now.

"Why were you out there tonight?" Snape continued.

Harry muttered something in reply, but his voice was muffled by his pillow. Sensing that Snape was close to losing his patience, Harry reluctantly rolled over onto his side, gasping in pain slightly as the movement jostled his injuries.

"Don't want to...remember," Harry slurred quietly, tapering down the urge to be sick as best he could as he stared up at his ceiling. "Better t'be numb, you know? Better not...to feel."

"Feeling is what makes you human, Potter," Snape said, his tone uncharacteristically understanding. Or maybe Harry was just really, really drunk and this was all a horrible dream. And if it really was a drunken dream, did it really matter if he told Snape anything?

"Don't want to be human," Harry admitted brokenly, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the ceiling to avoid looking at Snape. His drunken mind may have decided that this was a dream, but that didn't mean it was any easier to admit these things out loud. "Told Dumbles that already..."

"He knows you feel this way?" came Snape's response.

"Don't know," Harry replied honestly, his tired eyelids closing, almost against his will. "Left me here...again though. Knows I hate it..."

Snape was quiet for a while following that statement, and Harry could almost believe that his mind had given up on the entire charade and dream-Snape had vanished. Harry felt oddly let-down at the thought.

"Wanna go...sleep now," Harry told the room, his body taking the shape of the foetal position subconsciously as he curled in on himself.

"One moment, Potter," Snape said, but Harry only groaned in reply. So Snape _was _still here then. Why wouldn't the bastard just leave him alone?

"Leave me alone, Snape," Harry said drunkenly, his voice slightly muffled against his pillow. "You...did your job. You can go..."

"Don't do it again, Potter" Snape said seriously, and Harry got the feeling that the man was warning him about more than his drinking. "I do not want to have to fetch you again."

"Didn't help anyway..." Harry slurred angrily. "Didn't make it go away. I thought...it would...but...didn't..."

Harry clenched his eyes tightly as he fought not to let the tears fall. He refused to be weak in front of Snape, whether he was real or not. Harry rolled over to face the wall, a clear sign that he refused to say another word. Snape, it seemed, took the hint as it was meant, and seemed to accept that Harry had had enough for tonight. Whether or not the man left then, Harry didn't know.

Unconsciousness came upon him quickly, his mind blank as exhaustion overcame him and sleep claimed him.

* * *

Snape frowned as the boy's breathing deepened, indicating that he'd finally fallen asleep. He'd stayed until he was sure the boy was calm and comfortable, although he told himself it was only to make sure the boy didn't injure himself further.

Honestly, he didn't know what to make of it all.

Where was the arrogant, defiant Potter that he always had to deal with at school?

This Potter, the one Snape had met tonight, seemed...broken.

Had he been asked only yesterday what Harry Potter's home-life was like, Snape would have staked his reputation on him being coddled and spoilt like the prince he had always acted like at school. But tonight, his preconceptions, things he had believed with certainty only hours ago, had been destroyed one by one.

The boy was far from spoilt if this room was anything to go by. The paint on the walls was peeling; the floor wooden and cold, and the only furniture was an old wardrobe, a rickety desk and a small bed that looked as if it had seen better days. Not the sort of bedroom that one would expect a Wizarding celebrity to have.

Potter was not coddled or worshipped in this house either, that much was clear. The boy's drunken admissions forced their way back to the forefront of his mind. Had the boy really been struck by his Uncle? Had the beating really been dealt out by his cousin, his own flesh and blood?

The more telling thing, however, was how matter-of-fact Potter had been when he'd spilt his secret. That, Snape thought chillingly, spoke of a far deeper problem. Was violence part of the boy's daily life here? Was the Boy-Who-Lived, the Wizarding World's saviour, truly nothing more than a scared, abused young boy?

Snape felt pity rise up in him, an emotion he'd never thought he would ever associate with James Potter's spawn. But of course, he was Lily's child too, and she would have been distraught to learn of her son's life.

Had they all failed so unequivocally?

Idly, Snape wondered if the other Order members knew about the boy's state of mind. It would have been hard for them not to, he thought, especially when considering how close they all were with the boy. Even in spite of this, though, he found it hard to believe they'd known that the boy was abused at home. Surely, at even the merest suggestion of ill-treatment, the mutt or the wolf, or even for that matter the Weasley clan, would have rescued the boy in an instant.

Dumbledore. Did he know? Again, Snape found it hard to see how he couldn't know, although for entirely different reasons. The old man was intelligent, a genius, and he always seemed to know what was going on, no matter how much it was supposed to be a secret. Snape had always thought that Dumbledore had loved the boy, and in fact the Potions Professor had mocked his employer on more than one occasion for giving Potter special treatment. But if the Headmaster _had_ known and had still done nothing...

Snape would speak with the man. It was the only option. Whether the Headmaster had known about the treatment or not, it was clearly no place for the boy to stay now. If tonight was any indication, Potter would not be able to take much more.

Snape left then, having done as much as he could to heal the boy with sutble healing spells while he slept on unaware. As an afterthought, he conjured a bucket and left it by the bed in case the boy was ill in the night. Considering how much he'd drank, it wasn't beyond the realms of possibility.

Snape moved through the house quietly then, leaving through the front door and locking it behind him, his thoughts too jumbled for even Occlumency to give him any relief.

He knew more about Potter now than he had ever wanted to, but as he walked alone down the cold, dark street, away from the rows of identical houses, he couldn't help but think that it was a bloody miracle that the boy hadn't broken down before.

* * *

**A/N- **So what do you all think? I've had this story in my mind for a while now, and I've finally gotten around to writing it. I think I'll leave it as a one-shot now, although if interest is high-enough, I might expand it into a two or three-shot. Let me know what you think! And thanks for reading!


	2. Part Two

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and his world belong to J.K. Rowling. The lyrics at the start belong to Mumford and Sons. This story is mine.

**Warnings: **The occasional swearword and mentions of child abuse. No slash.

* * *

**Breaking Point**

**Part Two**

* * *

_I have no strength from which to speak,_

_When you sit me down, and see I'm weak._

'_**Not With Haste', Mumford and Sons**_

* * *

When Harry finally woke, early the next morning and fully clothed on top of his bed, it was with a banging headache that seemed to be drilling right through his very skull and a nausea that seemed to twist his stomach in on itself. He groaned and tried to bury his head deep into his pillow, desperately hoping that unconsciousness would come back and save him from the state he had woken up in. Light was streaming in through his thin curtains, and Harry clenched his eyes tightly as the brightness threatened to make the stabbing pain in his head even worse.

Harry groaned again, sighing heavily into his pillow; he was unmoving as he lay on his bed, but his head was still spinning and even though his mouth felt ridiculously dry, he couldn't seem to find the energy to get up for a glass of water. As if that wasn't bad enough, Harry's body was aching all over, with dizziness and sickness almost overwhelming him in equal measures. It took a few seconds to work out why he felt like this, having some difficulty working through the fog that filled his mind, but when the memories started to trickle in, it did nothing to sate his nausea.

"Potter!" came a high-pitched screech from downstairs, causing the pain in Harry's head to multiply to a level he hadn't thought possible. "Up now!"

Years of living with the Dursleys, and over a decade of hard-learned lessons, had taught him that, regardless of how completely terrible he felt, if he didn't get up and get started on breakfast, his relatives would find a way to make him feel even worse.

Cursing himself for being so stupid yesterday, and trying to dispel the fogginess from his brain as best he could, Harry reluctantly pulled his aching body from his off his bed and stood on shaky feet. He was more nauseous than ever as he tried to shake his wobbly legs into life. Clenching his eyes shut, Harry tried to push past the feeling of sickness that was rising up within him as best he could, stumbling slightly. As he staggered forwards, his foot knocked into something on the floor, something he was sure hadn't been there before last night and his eyes snapped open in confusion. Ignoring the new stabbing pain in his toe, Harry looked down and to his surprise he saw that there was a bucket on the floor by his bed. How it got there, Harry couldn't even begin to guess, but knew he couldn't afford to use it right now. He couldn't afford to be sick, not when there were chores to done and breakfast to be made.

Being almost sixteen now, Harry honestly didn't fear his family anymore; especially when considering everything he'd been through in the last few years. He wasn't that same boy who had lived in the cupboard anymore, too scared to even speak a word in case someone remembered he was there. Harry was almost an adult now, so he was sure that if he _had _refused to do his chores, then there wasn't a lot either his aunt or uncle could do to make him.

In the end though, this year Harry had just got on with what he had been told to do with almost no protest at all. Quite apart from struggling with Sirius' death, he'd realised quite quickly that, if he was to be stuck here all summer, it would be infinitely easier for him to do his best _not_ to actively aggravate his relatives. And after all, doing chores had actually helped take his mind off..._events._

Harry pushed the thought away as he shakily tried to pull on a clean pair of old jeans, struggling slightly with the dizziness that was still plaguing him. The thought wouldn't leave him though, and even in his exhaustion, his mind ran away from him.

Chores this summer, something he had always hated in the past, had actually helped to take his mind off...things, and at first he'd welcomed the relief from his grief. He found that he could shut everything off and concentrate only on the task at hand, however banal and tedious it was. In fact, the more boring it was, the better.

Of course, even despite his intent not to aggravate his relatives, last night he'd still somehow managed to get into a stupid argument with his uncle. Uncle Vernon had pushed and pushed, wheedling at Harry's grief until he could take no more; eventually Harry had snapped and yelled back at his Uncle, who obviously hadn't taken too kindly to his insolence. A swift backhand had stalled any significant protests, but Harry had soon needed something else to take his mind off everything. Since he knew he'd be unwelcome anywhere in the Dursley household but his bedroom, Harry had needed get out of the house and do something else to distract him from his desperate and morbid thoughts. A quick trip to Dudley's room just before sneaking out the house had been the only solution that his troubled mind had been able to grasp onto. Something to take away the pain...

Merlin, he'd been so stupid last night.

His memory of events were foggy at best, but the bruises he'd woken up with filled in at least part of his night. Harry vaguely recalled meeting Dudley and his gang at the park; they must have beaten him up, a fact that didn't surprise him all that much. In fact, the only thing that didn't make sense was how _few _bruises he had actually received from the encounter. Harry had been beaten up by Dudley's gang more times than he could count and he'd never come out of it feeling as relatively good as he did now.

Strange...

"Boy!"

Moaning slightly as the high-pitched screech reached his ears, Harry left his bedroom and shakily made his way downstairs, taking a deep breath as he prepared to face another day at the Dursleys.

"What took you so long, boy?" snapped his Aunt as he entered the kitchen, motioning for him to take over the eggs. "You look terrible."

"Thanks," Harry muttered as he transferred the eggs to three plates, and moved over to tend to the sausages. He knew, without asking, that none of it would be for him, but for once he was rather grateful. Even looking at the eggs was starting to turn his stomach.

As he used the spatula to nudge the sausages around absentmindedly, Harry cursed his terrible decision making. What on earth had possessed him to get drunk last night? If Hermione ever discovered what he'd done he'd likely never hear the end of it. Although in Harry's opinion, this hangover was punishment enough. He wanted nothing more than to go back to bed and sleep it off, but he knew he'd never get away with that. If the Dursleys even had an inkling that he was suffering, they'd delight in making it worse, not better. Although, how he could feel worse than he did at the moment, Harry couldn't even imagine.

In fact, as the greasy smell of the sausages began to rise up from the frying pan, Harry's stomach was starting to rebel even more than he'd originally thought. The bile rose in his throat before the thought had even fully formed and he dropped the spatula onto the floor in his haste as he desperately pulled at the back door, hoping to make it out of the house before he lost control.

He made it just in time, flinging his body out the door just as the contents of his stomach, meagre as they were, came up. He heaved violently onto the lawn, his throat aching even more and the pounding in his head growing to epic proportions. He placed a shaky hand on the wall beside him to steady himself as he threw up all the alcohol he'd drunk last night. He felt miserable. Why, when people raved about being drunk, did they never mention how awful a hangover felt?

Once the heaving mercifully stopped, although his head now felt worse than ever, Harry dragged himself wearily back to the back door, shakily wiping the sweat from his face. Thankfully he'd manage to avoid getting sick all over his clothes, but the back garden by the door was covered in it, and Harry awkwardly avoided the mess as he tried to pull himself back through into the kitchen.

"Oh, no you don't," Aunt Petunia sneered as she blocked the back door, a look of distaste clear on her face. "You aren't coming back in the house if you're just going to be sick everywhere."

"But..." Harry groaned. All he wanted now was to go back to bed and sleep this off.

"No arguments," his Aunt sniffed, barely looking in his direction and without any concern to his wellbeing whatsoever. "I don't care where you go, just stay away from my home before you defile it more than usual."

"Fine," muttered Harry, shakily turning away, staggering slightly; he knew a losing battle when he saw one. Normally he would argue anyway, just to annoy his relatives, but today he felt far too ill and his energy had almost been sapped completely by the bout of sickness that had overcome him only moments ago. His stomach felt a little more settled now, but his head was pounding worse than ever.

He knew of a park bench near the children's playground, and took off in that direction with barely a second thought, his legs lagging slightly as he dragged his tired body down the road. A nap sounded heavenly right now, even if his only option was a hard wooden bench to lie down on. Honestly, the way he felt right now, Harry thought he deserved a medal for not simply lying down on the grass in the Dursleys' back garden. In fact, had the grass not been covered in his sick, Harry might just have done that, no matter what his aunt said.

Memories came back to him as he made the walk; a walk that seemed much longer in his hung-over state. He vaguely recalled someone bringing him home from the park last night, but no matter how much he taxed his tired brain on the issue, Harry couldn't seem to remember who it had been. All Harry knew for certain was that it wasn't his relatives. He knew it wouldn't have been Dudley, who he had good reason to believe had beaten him up in the first place, and his aunt and uncle would have been quite happy for him to stay out and never come back at all.

Maybe it had been an Order member, Harry considered, trying to work past the constant throbbing in his head. Or maybe his alcohol induced mind had made the whole thing up as he'd stumbled home on his own?

Eventually, lost in thought, his movements slow and achy, Harry arrived at the bench and was relieved to find it was completely empty.

Wearily dragging himself the last few metres, Harry sat down with a sigh and pulled his legs up until he was lying on his back. As he clenched his eyes shut against the glare of the morning sun, Harry tried to will his body to relax on the hard seat.

He was tired, his head and body hurt, and all he wanted to do now was sleep.

* * *

Severus Snape marched down the nondescript Muggle Street with a glare fixed firmly on his face and black robes flapping behind him in the light morning breeze. The scowl that tugged at his mouth reflected his stormy thoughts on the inside, thoughts completely dominated by the bloody Boy-Who-Lived.

Snape had no idea what to think anymore.

Last night had been a revelation in more ways than one. If there was one thing that Severus Snape prided himself on, it was that he was rarely taken by surprise. He had seen so many things in his life, so many truly awful acts, that nothing ever shocked him to the core anymore. That particular emotion had been taken when he had lost Lily that terrible Halloween all those years ago.

But the way Potter had acted last night...

When the boy had first arrived at Hogwarts, Snape had convinced himself that Potter would be just as arrogant and selfish as his no-good father. Since their very first lesson, Snape had never seen anything to change his mind. The brat broke the rules, swanned around the school as if he owned the place, and paid absolutely no respect to those in charge. For all intents and purposes the boy had been incorrigible.

But last night Snape had been introduced to a new Harry Potter. One who was tired and frustrated, who had the weight of the wizarding world on his shoulders and was close to collpasing under it. One who had been beaten up by his own cousin, and who didn't see anything wrong with it. One who could have been abused for his whole life...

It just didn't match what Severus Snape had believed, had _clung to _all these years. And what was worse, the Potions Professor had no idea what to do now that each of his misconceptions seemed to had been destroyed one by one. How could he see Potter as arrogant and confident when he'd seen the boy so broken and low last night? How could he see Potter as a spoilt prince when the boy had been covered in bruises dished out by his own relatives? He'd spent the night, after he'd dropped Potter back at home, obsessing over what the boy had said, desperately trying to find some evidence of a lie.

He had found nothing.

Potter, as much as he hated to admit it, had been vulnerable last night and appeared to have spilled some of his greatest insecurities and greatest secrets.

Snape had debated with himself, over and over, as to whether or not he would talk to the Order, or indeed Dumbledore; the old Headmaster had a lot to answer for at the very least. In the end, the decision had been made for him. The only person available from the Order had been Lupin, and there was no way he was going to talk to the wolf, no matter what the situation. Dumbledore had been unavailable as well, although no one knew quite where _he_ was, so there was no way Snape could reveal what he'd discovered to him either.

Snape growled as he walked around the corner, cloak flapping menacingly in the wind. That ridiculous old man was the reason he was back in this dull Muggle town at all.

Well, that and his own bloody conscience. He hadn't been able to get Potter out of his mind. The boy's words had haunted his dreams, taunting him with the thought that he had been wrong all these years. If even an ounce of the boy's words were true, Snape could deny it no longer. He didn't have to be nice to the boy, and he definitely didn't have to like him, but he did had a duty to make sure the boy would survive the summer.

Snape knew the prophecy. Their entire world, everything Snape was fighting for, depended on that boy being fit enough to fight the dark lord. Snape had to know if Potter's words from last night were true, because if they were, the boy was close to cracking. There was no doubt about it. And since no one else in the bloody Order had noticed, it was left up to him to pick up the pieces. If the Boy-Who-Lived was broken, they were all doomed, and he refused to let that happen.

For the first time in a long time, Snape felt the tinglings of dread begin to form at the back of his mind. Did he truly want to know if the boy was suicidal? Did he really need to know if the boy had been abused by his relatives? Snape suspected not, and yet, as he rounded the corner near to the playground where he had first seen Potter last night, he realised that he'd given himself little choice.

He'd always relished a good puzzle, and Potter was presenting a tantalising one whether he liked it or not.

He had to know.

And as his eyes fell on a recognisable figure, curled up on a park bench, Snape knew just how to find out. Once and for all.

* * *

Harry couldn't sleep. No matter how long he lay there, the bench doing his aching body no favours, he just could not fall asleep. His mind was throbbing too hard, his back aching too much. He didn't want to think, and yet his mind seemed to want to do nothing else.

It was torture; memories from last night began to come back in full colour, interspersed with horrors from his past. Sirius dying. His parents' last words. Umbridge's detentions, Snape's Occlumency lessons. He didn't want to remember, and yet it seemed as if he could do little else.

Harry vaguely considered getting up and going for a walk, but he couldn't seem to gather the energy even for that. Instead, he turned onto his side and lay there with his head in his arms, the sun getting hotter and hotter as the morning wore on, eyes tightly closed against the world outside.

"Potter," came a harsh voice, drifting unwillingly into his tired mind. In fact, for a few seconds the voice barely registered and it was his instincts that answered for him in the end.

"Piss off, Dudley," Harry mumbled wearily as he continued to lie unmoving on the bench, eyes still closed. He just wanted to be left alone to wallow in his misery; was that honestly too much to ask?

"Language, Potter."

Shit.

That wasn't Dudley, Harry realised with a sense of dawning horror. The voice was too low and regal, the enunciation too clear. In fact, there was only one person it could possibly be, and Harry felt his heart clench in apprehension.

Maybe if Harry ignored him, he'd go away...

"What in Merlin's name are you doing here, Potter?" Snape demanded, his tone derisive. Harry groaned as the loud voice made his headache worsen, but didn't acknowledge the man's presence otherwise.

Snape was the last person he wanted to see right now, bar maybe Voldemort. Harry's heart was beating loudly in his chest, but otherwise he remained still and outwardly unaffected by the man's presence. Harry realised, though, that Snape was not about to leave anytime soon, no matter how much Harry ignored him. Suppressing a groan, Harry pulled himself up slightly and raised his head towards his professor, cracking his eyes open as the bright sunlight threatened to take his headache to a whole new level.

"Trying to sleep," Harry muttered, letting his head fall back into his arms. Had it been anyone else, Harry might have tried to be polite at least, but this was Snape.

"Potter -" began Snape, but Harry interrupted.

"Why...you here?" asked Harry, his voice almost completely muffled in his arms. He was curious and slightly apprehenisve with the professor's appearance in Little Whinging and was about to raise his head to ask the question again, more clearly this time, when Snape spoke instead.

"Eloquent as always, Potter," Snape sneered sarcastically, looking down on Harry with something akin to disgust. "And I do believe I asked a question first. If yours was indeed a question?" Snape raised his eyebrows and smirked, and Harry glared at him. The greasy git continued undeterred. "What do you think you are doing here?"

"Nothing," Harry relied angrily, finally opening both eyes properly. The bright light of day stung at his retinas but he forced himself to keep them open, not wanting to appear any weaker than he already did. The Potions Professor, unsurprisingly, was dressed in his typical all-black robes, and the man's face spoke of his irritation and annoyance. If Harry hadn't been so hung-over, he might have had the energy to be a little more scared, but as it was he couldn't seem to find it in himself to care.

"Potter," warned Snape with a heated glare.

"Fine," Harry snapped. "My Aunt won't let me back in the house. I was sick this morning. What's it to you anyway?"

"I've had enough of this attitude of yours, Potter," Snape said in annoyance as he pulled out his wand. Outwardly the man didn't react to Harry's admittance, but Harry noticed a slight tightening of his lips. Harry tried his best not to flinch as his professor aimed his wand at him. "Sit up this instant or I am sure I can find a way to make you."

"Fine," Harry replied, grumbling at the threat. He pulled himself up to sit at the bench properly, straightening his clothes as he did so. Harry tried to pull himself to his feet as well, certain that Snape was here to escort him back home, but Snape just pushed him back down again.

"Sit," Snape said sternly, and to Harry's horror, his Potion's Professor took a seat next to him. The fact that Snape looked as uncomfortable sitting next to him on the bench as Harry felt did nothing to make the teenager feel any better.

"You and I are going to have a conversation, Potter," Snape said, enunciating each syllable as if he were talking to a small child. Harry scrunched his face up in annoyance.

"I was just lying on a bench," Harry protested, half expecting Snape to dish out a detention, or at least give him a lecture. "I haven't done anything wrong."

"I told you yesterday not to run off again," Snape told him sternly. "The fact that you were inebriated at the time is no excuse for failing to follow that instruction."

"I haven't run off...wait, yesterday?" Harry felt the prickling of horror begin to rise within him, and his face paled as realisation hit.

"You do not remember?" Snape said, and Harry could detect a trace of amusement on his face as he moved to explain. "Somewhere in your idiotic mind you decided it would be a wonderful idea to get yourself drunk and then beaten up in a local playground. I merely escorted you home, since you seemed unable to do so yourself."

"It was you," Harry replied dumbly, failing to keep the horror from his voice. Harry had vaguely recalled seeing the Potions Professor last night but he'd almost convinced himself that it had been a hallucinogenic side effect of the alcohol. Snape merely smirked nastily, causing Harry to groan aloud and drop his aching head in his hands. His headache was getting worse; he could feel it.

"Why are you here?" Harry asked angrily, using anger to push past the embarrassment of having the Potions Professor see him like that. Of all the people to have found him, it had to have been the one person who was certain to hold it over him forever. He would never live this down...

"Drink this," Snape ordered, ignoring Harry's question altogether. The professor held out a pale hand, offering in his long fingers a vial of what looked to be a potion, although not one that Harry recognised.

"What's that?" Harry asked apprehensively, nervously eying the bottle with no small amount of distrust.

"A potion to counteract some of the efforts of a hangover," Snape replied matter-of-factly, gesturing Harry to take it from him. Harry kept his arms firmly by his sides.

"I'm fine," Harry replied stubbornly. No way was he drinking anything Snape offered him. He didn't trust the man and he never would.

"It is not poison, you fool," Snape snapped, clearly frustrated. "If I was going to kill you, I assure you I could have done it at any point last night. I doubt you were in any condition to defend yourself."

Harry flushed but his eyes were still fixed on the vial. "I don't know, you seem like the type to favour poison..."

"Just drink it Potter," Snape said with a weariness in his voice that took Harry slightly by surprise. "We are going to have this conversation whether you like it or not, and I would rather you looked less like death warmed over."

"Fine," muttered Harry, taking the potion from Snape's unresisting hand and downing it in one go. It tasted disgusting, but instead of adding to his nausea, to Harry's surprise his headache began to ebb away and his stomach settled in seconds.

"Thanks," Harry mumbled reluctantly, dropping his gaze to the floor. Snape raised an eyebrow, but did not acknowledge Harry's gratitude at all.

"Dumbledore has instructed me to talk to you," Snape said instead, and Harry got the distinct impression that it had not been so much a request as a demand. Harry felt apprehension rise within him. "A heart to heart if you will."

At this, Snape gave Harry a look of disgust and Harry couldn't blame him for once. The last thing Harry wanted to do was talk about his feelings.

"A heart to heart?" Harry replied, allowing some of his disgust to leak into his voice.

"To ensure the events of yesterday are not repeated," Snape confirmed, his voice stern and unyielding. "Be assured, if I had not been ordered to be here, I would not be."

"Look," Harry began, hoping to reason with the man. "I...it was a mistake. You can tell Dumbledore that I won't do it again."

"_Professor_ Dumbledore," Snape corrected snarkily. "And forgive me if I don't take your word for it."

"Why you?" Harry asked with a scowl. His feelings about the Headmaster were confused enough already. Part of him was angry at the man, and the other part was desperate for his help. The fact that Dumbledore had sent Snape to have this chat did little to repair his trust in the man. "Why not...someone else?"

"I am all that is available," Snape sneered, looking very much put out by the task. "I'm sorry to be the one to have to inform you, but the world does not revolve around the Boy-Who-Lived."

"But..." Harry continued to argue, ignoring the insult; he had more pressing issues to deal with. "I don't want to talk. Not to anyone."

The '_especially_ _not to you' _ was implied, but Snape obviously didn't miss it, and Harry saw a glare form on the man's face before he'd even finished his sentence.

"I do not particularly want to listen either," Snape said bluntly. "But it seems neither of us are to get our wish. Dumbledore wishes for you to explain what is bothering you. On top of that, there are some things that came to light yesterday that you need to explain. Either you talk to me, and tell me your no doubt pitiful troubles so that I can report back to the Headmaster, or you can talk to him yourself. But be warned, Potter, he is a busy man, and he does not take kindly to unimportant interruptions."

Harry dropped his gaze to the potions bottle that he held in his hands. "I don't want to talk to him."

"Trouble in paradise?" sneered Snape. "No longer Dumbledore's Golden Boy?"

"I don't think I ever was, s_ir," _Harry answered, frustrated.

"Don't be stupid, Potter," Snape replied, equally frustrated it seemed. "The Headmaster has always favoured you."

"Not for my benefit, though," Harry argued, figeting with his hands in his lap. "I'm a tool to him, I think. I doubt he sees further than my scar."

Snape raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Explain."

It was strange, sitting on this Muggle bench, not far from the Dursleys', next to one of the people he hated most in the world. It seemed, no matter how reluctant he was to be part of this conversation, Snape truly was going to listen to what Harry had to say. Unfortunately, Harry was in no mood to say anything.

"I don't want to, Sir," Harry muttered, clenching his hands together.

"Don't make this difficult, Potter," Snape snapped, turning round slightly on the bench so that Harry could appreciate the full effect of his glare.

"I'm fine," Harry replied stubbornly, folding his arms over his chest. "I don't need to talk."

"You have a strange notion of what 'fine' is, Potter," Snape told him, his tone unrelenting.

Harry, though, refused to say anything more. Snape might have been willing to listen, but there was no guarrantee that the Potions professor would keep all Harry's thoughts and feelings secret from his Snakes come September. The simple truth was that he just didn't trust the man.

"You were _fine_ last night then?" prodded Snape unsympathetically when it became clear to him that Harry wasn't going to elaborate.

"That was...that was nothing," Harry said quietly, hugging his arms around his chest slightly.

"You were drunk, Potter," Snape replied. "Alone and covered in bruises. There were no laughing friends, no party. We both know that it was no mere teenage rebellion. You needed it."

"Yes, I needed it," Harry burst out, frustrated. "I just needed to be by myself for a while. Is that too much to ask?"

"You could not have time alone at your home?" Snape asked, blatantly ignoring the frustration in Harry's voice, something that only served to make Harry angrier.

"No," Harry replied bluntly.

"And the alcohol?" asked Snape with a frown.

"What about it?" Harry muttered, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor.

"You say you wanted to be alone," began Snape, and Harry nodded. "I fail to see why you needed to be drunk to achieve that."

"Have you read what the papers have been saying about me, Professor?" asked Harry, and he could see that Snape was slightly taken aback by the question. Despite this though, Snape nodded in reply.

"They think I'm some sort of chosen one," Harry continued, eyes clouded over slightly as he stared ahead at nothing in particular. "They think I'm destined to rid the world of Voldemort."

"They are mindless fools, Potter," Snape interjected. "They will believe whatever they are told."

"Does it matter?" Harry asked, turning slightly. "They believe it now. Do you know what it's like, Professor? To be under that sort of pressure. To be seen as something you can never hope to be?"

Snape was quiet, and Harry found that reassuring. He hadn't meant to reveal so much, but his thoughts had gotten away from him, and it was nice, he supposed, that someone was actually taking the time to listen. In the end, Harry found that he didn't care that it was Snape he was talking to anymore. He'd had such a terrible time of it recently that he found himself clinging to the first person to show him any real attention this summer.

"I just wanted to forget for a while. To be myself. No one bothers to look past my dad's face or my mum's eyes," Harry continued quietly, and Snape seemed surprised that he'd continued talking. "I'm Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, imbecile, idiot, freak...never just Harry."

"Explain," Snape said finally, with a troubled look upon his face. "What do you mean by that?"

"At first, when I arrived at Hogwarts, all the teachers were really nice. Well...most." Harry flushed when he caught the look on Snape's face. Quickly he moved on. "But I didn't understand, you see. At primary school, all the teachers had hated me. For ten years, _everybody I knew_ seemed to hate me. I thought, when I got to Hogwarts, well...at first, I thought that _you _were the only one who'd got me right. I thought _you_ were the only one who treated me _normally. _How messed up is that?"

To his horror, Harry felt a sob rising at the back of his throat but he gulped it back forcefully. He hadn't cried for years, and he had no intention of doing it now, especially in front of Snape of all people.

"I mean, I know better now." Harry continued firmly, determined to pull himself together. "I've got friends. People who really care about me, you know. And I'm grateful. I really am."

"It still bothers you," Snape said, a strange look on his face. For once, the man looked him in the eye with something that wasn't quite hatred, and Harry felt himself taken aback slightly at the unusual sight.

"It's just...it's hard to be judged for something you're not," Harry continued reluctantly when it was clear Snape wasn't going to say anything else. He looked away from the Potions Professor as he tried to gather his thoughts. "No, that's not right. It's hard to be judged for something you will never, or can never be. The teachers all expect me to be like my parents; I can see it in their faces. They're...disappointed that I'm not more like them. But how can I be? I never knew them."

At this last question, guilt seemed to flash across Snape's face, but it was gone so quickly that Harry half-believed he'd imagined it. In the end, the man gave Harry a small nod to continue, and despite his earlier reservation, Harry found that he actually had more to say.

"I'm either hated or worshipped, and honestly, I don't know which one is worse," he continued. "I mean, who wants to be famous because their parents died? Who wants to be reminded of that night, every time someone looks at their bloody forehead?"

Snape, it seemed, had no answer to that. They sat there quietly, both lost in their thoughts. Harry allowed his mind to wander in the silence, his thoughts occupied with the fickleness of the Wizarding world. He wondered how he'd be treated by them this year...

"What about your charming relatives, Potter?" Snape asked abruptly, interrupting the silence with a suddeness that took Harry completely by surprise.

"What do you mean?" Harry asked apprehensively. Why was Snape asking about the Dursleys? What did he know?

"They do not treat you as they should," Snape stated firmly, an odd look on his face.

"They treat me fine," Harry replied stubbornly.

"Your cousin beat you up," Snape continued angrily. "Your Uncle _hit you."_

_"_So?" Harry question, frustration leaking into his tone. Silence followed his statement. Harry had meant to deny it, to continue to pretend that nothing was wrong at Privet Drive, but the word had slipped out before he could stop it. Snape, it seemed, had not missed its significance.

"Why have you never said anything?" Snape asked, his brow furrowed in concentration. To Harry, the man seemed confused, but Harry couldn't work out why he would be.

"Never came up," Harry replied with a shrug.

"You made sure it never came up, you fool," Snape told him, running a tired hand over his face. "We could have helped you."

"How?" Harry demanded. "Mine isn't a normal case and you know it. I need the protection I get there. No matter how badly I'm treated, I'm a lot better off there than I would be if I was captured by Tom."

"It is not right," Snape said, and to Harry's horror, he saw something akin to pity begin to form on the potions professor's face.

"Look I'm fine here, Snape," Harry said quickly. "It's nothing I can't handle. Aunt Petunia never lets it go too far."

"_Professor _Snape, Potter," corrected Snape with a glare, and Harry released a breath in relief. He didn't think he could handle it if Snape started to treat him differently. As much as he hated the barbed insults and the unfair treatment, at least he knew where he stood with the man. He was a constant in a life where hardly anything ever stayed the same.

"Your Aunt knows about the treatment?" continued Snape, pulling Harry away from his thoughts.

"Course," Harry shrugged. "But she never lets it get too serious."

"Too serious?" scoffed Snape, although he didn't seem in the least bit amused. "Potter, that oaf of a muggle hit you."

"So?" Harry repeated. "It was only a cuff. He just...I don't know...knocks me about a bit. It's not like he beats me or anything."

"No," Snape snapped. "His obese son does that on his behalf."

"Ah, well that was a one off," Harry answered with a shrug. "Usually I run, and he's too slow and lazy to try to catch me."

"He caught you last night," Snape pointed out, gesturing towards his still bruised face.

Harry shrugged. "I didn't really feel like running."

"No, I suspect you didn't," Snape muttered, lapsing into silence once again.

"I don't like it but..." continued Harry, talking to the ground once again. "I dunno, what choice do I have?"

"Do you not care for your wellbeing?" Snape demanded abruptly. "Do you not care for your life at all?"

"Of course I do!" Harry replied indignantly. "My Uncle isn't going to kill me!"

"I am Head of Slytherin, Potter," Snape said firmly. "I have seen many cases of abuse. Some were discovered too late to be saved."

"I'm not abused," Harry replied stubbornly. "And don't you dare tell Dumbledore I am. I'm fine here."

"You cannot order me about, Potter," Snape snapped. "I am your Professor, and you will respect me."

Harry met the man's glare with equal intensity. He refused to back down. Snape might have been reasonable during this 'heart to heart' but Harry still didn't like the man and he certainly didn't respect him. The man had treated him like dirt for the last few years; Harry wasn't going to forget that anytime soon, no matter how much Snape was trying to help now.

"First of all Potter, you are not fine," Snape growled menacingly, pulling Harry back to the present. "Secondly, you are obviously affected by the abuse you have suffered. It is not uncommon for the abused to seek refuge in drink or drugs."

"That's not why I was drinking!" Harry replied angrily.

"I fail to see a better explanation," Snape retorted, his frustation clear.

"Look, I might not have long left," Harry replied, turning away from Snape. "I thought I may as well experience all life has to offer before I die. Is that such a crime?"

"You are sixteen, Potter."

"Fifteen," Harry corrected. "And that makes me young, not invincible. I could die any day. I could get hit by a bus tomorrow. Being young isn't going to stop a bus from killing me if I got in its way."

"You are being ridiculous," Snape said with a glare.

"Not really," Harry replied, unaffected by Snape's annoyance. "Just realistic."

"Explain," Snape said for the third time that morning, his expression intense to the point that Harry nearly faltered under it this time.

"Being targeted by a homicidal maniac tends to lower a person's life expectancy," Harry said quietly.

"You expect to die," Snape stated, brows furrowed.

"No, I expect him to kill me," Harry replied bluntly, meeting Snape's gaze solidly and without the merest flicker of doubt.

"Is this why you drank yourself into oblivion last night, Potter?" Snape said, in a way that was curious rather than cruel. "Because you finally realised that you are merely human, and not the invincible hero that the Wizarding World believes you to be?"

"No," Harry muttered wryly, letting the insult slide and choosing to answer the question sincerely. This was the first civil conversation he and Snape had ever had, and honestly, he didn't want it to descend into an argument. "I've always know I wasn't invincible. I mean, it's not like I've haven't faced my death before. I've always survived, by luck mostly, but...I'm...I'm not scared of dying."

"Then what are you scared of, Potter?" Snape asked seriously.

"I'm scared of dying for no reason," Harry replied strongly and with no hint of doubt in his expression. "I'm scared of being killed by _Him_ without putting up a fight."

Harry looked away from Snape, anger coursing in his veins.

"I hate him, sir," Harry continued. "More than I've ever hated anything in my life. I want him dead, and if I have to die to do it, then so be it. I just...I don't know how to hurt him..."

"You are fifteen, Potter," Snape said. "You are not meant to have all the answers."

"Yes I am. The prophecy..."

"That damned prophecy states that you have the power to cast the final blow, not that you must do so alone, devoid of help."

"You know the Prophecy," Harry stated, and though it was not a question, Snape answered.

"Yes."

Questions bombared Harry's mind. Did Snape know the entire Prophecy? Did Voldemort? How did Snape find out and, more importantly, how long had he known for? Harry felt overwhelmed with all the questions, but after a few moments pushed them away. Did it honestly matter? The simple fact was that Snape seemed to know. That was enough for Harry at the moment.

"Even so, I don't think I have a lot of time," Harry continued, causing a shocked look to flit quickly across Snape's face. Apparently he had been expecting questions too.

Snape recovered quickly however. "Then you will have to make sure you make the most of the time you have left, however long that may be."

Had that been anyone else answering that question, Harry could've almost guaranteed that they would have softened the blow, giving him some nonsense like 'You have the rest of your life ahead of you' or 'You're only a child. Leave that kind of thought to the adults.'

But Snape...Snape had told Harry exactly what he'd thought, in as blunt a way as possible. He had not dolled it up into something it wasn't.

Snape was...truthful, in a way that no other adult in his life seemed to be. Harry had stopped feeling like a child a long time ago, but he wondered sometimes if Dumbledore and Mrs Weasley, or even Remus, still saw that weak, scrawny first year who had almost been too frightened to put on the sorting hat.

"I am fighting for a reason, Potter, just like you," Snape continued seriously, and Harry felt himself hanging on every word. "I am fighting because I believe we can win. As much as it pains me to say it to a Potter, you are not weak. Far from it, if even half the tales of your adventures are true."

"I can't beat him," Harry muttered. "I can't do this."

"An ordinary sixteen year old may not be able to bear this burden, Potter" Snape continued, his voice absent, for once, of any hate. "But you are no ordinary sixteen year old."

It was as close to a compliment as Snape had ever given Harry, and it meant all the more because of that.

"Just remember, Potter," Snape said, meeting Harry's eyes. "When the time comes, you will not stand alone."

Harry didn't know how to reply to that, but found that he didn't have to as Snape stood up from the bench and turned to face him an odd considering look on his face. After a long moment, the Professor spoke.

"I will inform Professor Dumbledore that you should be moved to another location," Snape began slowly, as if it had taken a deliberate effort to make the decision. "Perhaps with the Weasleys or the wolf."

"But why?" Harry asked desperately. "I'm fine here."

"You may think you are, Potter," Snape allowed, his expression as serious as Harry had ever seen it. "But I cannot, in all good conscience, allow you to remain here. It is for your own good, whether you can see that or not."

"Oh," replied Harry quietly, his thoughts running wildly through his head at the realisation that Snape was concerned for him.

"I will not, however, tell him of your circumstances," Snape said, and Harry could see the sincerity in his eyes. "Nor will I tell anyone else. That is for you to divulge, when and if you choose to do so."

"Yes, sir," Harry replied, completely overwhelmed by this small consideration from the Potions Professor.

"But," continued Snape, "You will give me your word that you will ask for help if you need it. It is time you started relying on those around you, Potter."

"Fine," Harry mumbled, his voice quiet but his answer sincere. "You have my word."

Snape nodded in acceptance and said, "Go home, Potter. Stay in the house and wait for word from the Order. I will try to get you moved as soon as possible. Do your best to stay out of your relative's way in the meantime."

"Yes, sir," Harry answered, and Snape gave him a long, considering look before nodding in reply. The man turned away then and made to leave.

"I still don't like you, sir," Harry blurted out before Snape had even gone one step.

"I never said you should, Potter," Snape said as he turned to face Harry once again, apparently unaffected and unsurprised by Harry's blunt admission. "Be assured that I do not like you either. You still act far too much like a Gryffindor."

"The Sorting Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin," Harry told him, although he wasn't entirely sure why.

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Then it was mistaken. You are a Gryffindor through and through, make no mistake."

From anyone else that would be a compliment, but from Snape Harry wasn't sure how to take it. In the end, Harry decided to let it go.

"Bye, sir," he said, his eyes sincere and lacking their usual hatred of the Professor. "And thanks."

"Goodbye, Mr Potter."

Snape did not acknowledge the thanks Harry had given him, and left without giving Harry a chance to reiterate it, sweeping down the road so quickly that Harry almost wondered if he had imagined his presence in the first place.

Harry didn't move from the bench, his eyes staring at the road as his thoughts whirred around in his head.

They were never going to be friends; they both knew that. They didn't like each other and never would. There was too much bad blood there; too much of a murky past to wade through. But something had changed. There was respect there now, or at least the foundations for it. They knew each other a little better and, even though they would never be close, it made a difference.

And maybe, just maybe, it would be enough.

* * *

**A/N- **So what do you think? I suspect it wasn't what a lot of you were expecting, but I really hope it wasn't a disappointment to those who liked the first part. Also, I hope Snape and Harry are still largely in character; it's difficult to get them both to a point where they're talking about how they feel without it descending into an insult competition, at the same time as keeping them in character.

I'm aware a lot of readers were hoping for a confrontation between Snape and the Order/Dumbledore, but this seemed a more interesting direction to go in, and I still think it's wrapped up quite nicely. I may add a Snape/Dumbledore/Harry confrontation later on, but for now, consider this completed. Please let me know what you think! And thanks for reading!


	3. Part Three

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and his world belong to J.K. Rowling. The lyrics at the start belong to the Foo Fighters. This story is mine, although some of the dialogue is taken directly from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Those extracts, of course, belongs to J.K. Rowling as well.

* * *

**Breaking Point**

**Part Three**

* * *

_Were you born to resist or be abused?_

_I swear I'll never give in, I refuse._

_Is someone getting the best, the best, the best, _

_The best of you?_

'_**Best Of You,' Foo Fighters**_

* * *

It was night-time, and Dumbledore's office was shrouded in a half-light, the objects that cluttered his desk hidden in shadows.

Severus Snape worked feverishly by candle-light as the Headmaster sat limply in his ornate chair looking pale and close to death. Dumbledore sagged further down in his chair as Snape muttered incantations, waving his wand in complicated motions over the old man's blackened hand. Without pausing the flow of spells, Snape reached over to the darkened desk and closed long, pale fingers around the goblet that lay there. He coaxed the semi-conscious man's limp mouth open and tipped the golden potion down the Headmaster's throat, Snape's heart beating furiously as he held his breath. After a few seconds of tense waiting, Dumbledore's eyes tiredly flickered open.

"Do not move, Headmaster." Snape felt relief course through him at the sight of those familar bright blue eyes, and he allowed himself to sag slightly against the Headmaster's desk as the old man pulled himself back to full consciousness.

Dumbledore, it seemed, had no energy left to disobey him, and remained sagged in his chair as some of the effects of the curse lingered behind despite Snape's best efforts. The Potions Master allowed a sigh to leave his lips as he wiped at his sweat soaked brow, questions bombarding his tired mind.

"Why did you do it?" Snape began without preamble, and Dumbledore raised his head. The relief had passed now, and the beginnings of anger replaced it. He glowered darkly at the Headmaster, as if daring him not to be truthful. "Why did you put on that ring? It carries a curse, surely you realized that. Why even touch it?"

"I…was a fool. Sorely tempted…"

"Tempted by what?" Snape asked, dread forming in the pit of his stomach. The Headmaster did not reply, but the look of guilt on his face took Snape aback by the intensity of it. Snape felt anger rise up in his at the Headmaster looking so weak. So human.

"It is a miracle you managed to return here!" Snape continued furiously when the man refused to answer. "That ring carried a curse of extraordinary power, to contain it is all we can hope for; I have trapped the curse in one hand for the time being – "

The Headmaster remained unaffected by the continuing tirade, looking for all the world as if he had merely woken up from a comfortable sleep rather than the fever induced effects of a Dark curse. If it had not been for the man's faintly shaking limbs and pale face, Snape could have believed that nothing was wrong with him at all.

"You have done very well, Severus," the Headmaster said calmly. "How long do you think I have?"

The casual nature of the man's question caused the fury within him to reach almost unimaginale levels. Did the man care nothing for his life? Did he not see what would happen if the world lost him?

"I cannot tell," Snape replied tightly, trying to keep his anger under control. "Maybe a year. There is no halting such a spell forever. It will spread eventually, it is the sort of curse that strengthens over time."

Dumbledore smiled. The news that he had less than a year to live seemed a matter of little or no concern to him, and Snape found that his fury was no closer to abating.

"I am fortunate, extremely fortunate, that I have you, Severus."

"If you had only summoned me a little earlier, I might have been able to do more, buy you more time!" said Snape furiously. He looked down at the broken ring and the sword that lay scattered on the darkened desk. "Did you think that breaking the ring would break the curse?"

"Something like that…I was delirious, no doubt…" said Dumbledore. With an effort he straightened himself in his chair. "Well, really, this makes matters much more straightforward."

Snape was utterly perplexed but Dumbledore merely smiled in that infuriating way of his.

"I refer to the plan Lord Voldemort is revolving around me. His plan to have the poor Malfoy boy murder me."

That was enough, Snape thought furiously. He felt dread begin to rise within him at what the Headmaster was going to ask, but at the same time he felt anger filter into his mind at the thought of all that the Headmaster had pushed aside in his folly.

"And what of the other boy?" Snape burst out angrily, shocking the smile from Dumbledore's face. Snape pushed aside the Headmaster's words, not wanting to think of Draco when his thoughts were already in an unimaginable mess. "Does he not deserve your consideration too? Does your impending death make things more 'straightforward' for him?"

"To whom are you referring, Severus?" The Headmaster asked with a frown, the twinkle absent in his eyes for once.

"The Potter boy," Snape replied stiffly.

"Harry?"

"Yes," Snape continued, scoffing at the change in the Headmaster; his blue eyes were more alert and the old man had sat up more in his chair at the mere mention of Potter. "What of your Golden Boy? Did you think of him at all when you placed your life in danger?"

"What is this about, Severus?" asked Dumbledore, avoiding the question and causing Snape to growl in frustration. The man pierced him with those bright blue eyes, as if trying to look into his very soul, but Severus remained unmoved, a glare firm on his face.

"The boy, Potter," Snape began firmly, his eyes meeting the Headmaster's without faltering. "He must be moved."

"Moved?" Dumbledore asked, and if he was confused by the direction of the conversation, he didn't show it. "Harry is safe at Privet Drive. The blood wards will not allow harm to come to him."

Snape scoffed but he did not explain when Dumbledore raised an eyebrow in confusion.

"Harry will be fine without me, Severus," Dumbledore said calmly, not at all distressed by his impending death. "When I die, he will not falter. He is a strong boy - "

"He is at breaking point, you fool!" Snape began fiercely. "You give him too much credit. One more knock and the Wizarding World may as well find a new saviour for all the good he will be."

"Where is this coming from?" Dumbledore asked calmly, although his eyes were intense as they held Snape's attention. "What has changed, Severus? You have always disliked the boy. Why are you suddenly overcome with the need to protect him now?"

"I have always protected him!" Snape replied indignantly, infuriated with the man's lack of reaction.

"But not _for _him," Dumbledore argued calmly, his blue eyes piercing. "You did it for Lily, and no one else."

Snape looked away, trying to gain control of his beating heart and runaway thoughts. He could not deny that. From the day he had found out about Lily Potter's death, he had barely given her son a second thought. The boy had been a way to assauge his guilt, to atone for his sins, but Snape had never protected him for the boy's own sake. Snape felt more guilt rise within him, but he pushed it aside with his anger.

His mind had gone under a monumental shift in the last few days, forced as he was to meet a Harry Potter that he had always refused to see. The boy was not as he had always appeared to be, and it had forced Snape to admit that perhaps there was more that he had been mistaken in. He wouldn't allow the Headmaster to dismiss the boy as easily as he had himself.

"You are no better," Snape began with a glare, thinking back to all that had been revealed. "You do not see the boy behind the scar."

"Harry is a remarkably resilient lad - "

"He is a human being, Albus," Snape argued angrily, frustration colouring his tone. "A child! He is not a pig to be raised for slaughter! You cannot keep expecting him to remain unaffected by the burden placed upon him. He is not invincible!"

He had been trying to assauge his guilt for so long that the pressure of his self-appointed task rose up in him now and broke through the rigid control that had been his haven since Lily's death.

"What has changed, Severus?" Dumbledore repeated, brow furrowed in confusion. The Headmaster was obviously taken aback by his outburst, and Snape felt a vindictive pleasure in knowing something that the Leader of the Light did not. "To hear you defend the boy, one would almost believe that you cared for him."

"Potter," Snape began tightly. "is not as similar to his father as I first believed."

"No he is not," Dumbledore agreed, brow furrowed in confusion. "But what has made you see it finally?"

"The truth has made me see, Albus," Snape snapped. "The truth that even you do not hold in its complete form. I do not care for the boy. I do not even like him. But recent events have caused me to see what I have always pushed aside; what bitterness would not allow me to look for. There is more to the boy than that which was contributed by his father. I saw what I expected to see. You do not see at all."

"Tell me, Severus," Dumbledore implored, his pale face catching the faint moon rays that reached in through the window. The man looked aprehensive and older than Snape had ever seen him. It seemed that the Headmaster had finally grasped the sincerity of his words. "You have spoken to Harry, I assume. Tell me what you know."

"Ask him yourself." Snape replied stiffly. "It is not my place to reveal that which is not mine to tell."

"But there is something wrong," Dumbledore tried to confirm, having realised that Snape was remaining staunch in his silence. Snape nodded stiffly in reply, his arms crossed in front of his chest.

"Perhaps something could be done," Dumbledore admitted, apparently lost in thought, and Snape felt the tingles of fury rise up within him once again. He would not let the man do wrong by the boy any more.

"Do not push him aside," Snape warned, angrily clenching his fists by his sides. "The boy is close to breaking at it is!"

"The blood wards need time to be reset - "

"You are a fool, Dumbledore," Snape interrupted, contempt dripping from his voice. "You see only one path, only one solution. You have missed what you should have always known. The boy needs you to care."

"I do care," Dumbledore said in surprise.

"He does not believe that," Snape said firmly and unsympathetically, certain that his words were true. "He thinks he is a tool in your eyes."

Dumbledore's brow furrowed and his mouth formed a small frown. "He is...mistaken."

"Then correct him. Before irreparable damage is done. Before your golden boy is too broken to do what he must."

"You wish him to live," Dumbledore stated, blue eyes fixed upon Snape's black ones.

"He _must _live." Snape replied, knowing that the argument was won simply by the look in the Headmaster's eyes. "For the sake of us all."

* * *

Snape fingered the parchment, lost in thought as the fire flickered and crackled in the dark room. Sat at his desk, alone and shrouded in the shadows created by the dancing flames, Snape re-read the words on the ink spattered page, his brow furrowed slightly.

_Dear Professor Snape,_

_I'm not sure why I'm writing this letter. I'm not even sure that you'll read it. There's every chance that as soon as you work out who's writing, you'll rip up the parchment and throw it into the fire. I hope you don't though._

_I wanted to say thank you. I'm at the Weasleys' home now (Dumbledore moved me last week) and I'm glad to be away from the Dursleys. I don't know why you helped me, but I'm glad you did. I would've been fine on my own of course, but I'd still rather be at the Burrow than Number Four any day. I did what you said, and stayed out of their way, but being treated as if I don't exist isn't much of an improvement._

_I know you didn't like my dad, and I don't blame you, but I just wanted you to know that I really appreciate you looking after me. No one else has ever really bothered. I mean Dumbledore has tried to help me, and so have the Weasleys, but they always seem to be gone at the most important times. Even Si- well, my Godfather wasn't ever really there when I needed him._

_I suppose I just wanted to say thanks. I know you still hate me, so you don't need to reply. _

_Hope the rest of your summer is okay._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Harry Potter_

_P.S. I didn't get the Potions grade I needed to get into your NEWT class so I won't be taught by you next year. Guess you were right about my abysmal potions after all._

* * *

Once he reached the end, Snape's grip tightened on the letter, causing the parchment to crumple slightly.

Potter was a fool, Snape thought as he allowed the parchment to drop from his fingers and fall unhindered to his desk. He raised a pale hand up to rub wearily at his face as his thoughts refused to leave the issue of Potter behind. Had he not done his duty? Was the boy not safe now?

Of course, Potter would never be safe, he thought with a sense of dread pooling in his stomach. That was why thoughts of the boy would not leave his mind. Potter would never be free of danger so long as the dark lord still hunted him.

Snape absently rubbed at the dark mark forever tattooed on his body, as his eyes fell onto the fallen letter.

Potter wore his heart on his sleeve and it would get him killed if he did not reign in that trusting nature of his. The boy had lost far too much, too young, and he had allowed himself to cling to the first person that had showed him any positive attention, even though that person was someone he had always hated. It was foolish and yet Snape felt the tricklings of understanding flow through him. Because he knew well the desire for someone to simply notice.

Snape knew how it felt to be abused and broken, to be pushed to the limits of human endurance. To be treated as nothing and swept aside as unimportant and unwanted. The Potions master did not want to see the similarites between his own childhood and that of his school-time enemy's son, but he could deny it no longer.

But where he, Severus Snape, had given up and taken the dark road to power, the Potter boy was resilient in his goodness. He had not been broken, not yet. Goodness seemed to make up the boy's very soul, leaving him untainted by the abuse he had suffered.

Snape couldn't help but be jealous of Potter for that.

The boy was not dealing with the abuse though, that much was clear. He only hoped Potter sought help before it was too late; before he turned out like he had; bitter and alone. Dumbledore would pursue it now, Snape had made sure of that, and he hoped the boy would allow the old man to help him.

Potter was a mediocre student, and his trouble making rivalled that of his blasted father, but Snape did not hate the boy. Potter was not his father, Snape could see that now, but nor was he his mother. Harry Potter was his own entity, and though it had taken a night of drunken ramblings, and a morning spent talking on a muggle bench to see it, Snape could deny it no longer. The boy was strong and resilent and good, but he was also pressured and beaten down, almost to breaking point.

They were lucky that Potter had not given up a long time ago.

Snape knew that Potter would fight the Dark Lord as his destiny fortold, not because the Prophecy had dictated it, but because the boy simply could not stand by and do nothing when it was in his power to stop the evil wizard. It was foolish, and yet Snape could not help the rising tinglings of respect from entering his mind at the thought. He knew that the boy would fight to the very end, not because he felt he had to, nor because he was made to, but because it was the right thing to do.

Potter would not fail. Severus Snape would not allow him to.

Although he would still keep his distance from the boy, the oath he had made still ran through his very veins, even to this day. He would protect the boy until the end of time, until the last dying breath was ripped from his body.

Always.

* * *

**A/N- **Okay, this really is the end now. I know that I said I probably wouldn't add any more, but as I was re-reading the last chapter, I realised that I wanted to add Snape's point of view in there as well. It isn't long, but I think it wraps the whole story up a little better. I hope you like it, and that you'll let me know what you think! I've left it deliberately vague in some places ('Does Dumbledore really care for Harry?', 'Has Harry dealt with the abuse?' etc) so that you can form your own views and apply your own theories. I look forward to hearing them!

I may write a sequel of sorts in the future, but only if I can come up with a really good idea that would make continuing this story worth it. It won't be any time soon though, so don't hold your collective breath.

Thank you so much for all your alerts, favourites and reviews, but more importantly, thanks for reading!


End file.
